The Doctor's Worst Day
by ACleverName
Summary: Author's Notes: Again, it crawled out of a dark corner of my brain. Obviously if we were being serious, the Doctor's worst day would be grim indeed ... the Time War, "Earthshock," "Doomsday," etc. And perhaps when I'm in an angsty mood I'll put the poor
1. Chapter 1

An Earthly Child

**An Earthly Child**  
"Oh, Doctor, it's ever so smashing!" announced Polly.

"Yeah, Doctor, what is it?" asked Ben.

"A Time-Space Visualizer," the Doctor replied wearily, pulling at his lapels. Humans were so amused by this thing.

"Well, can we use it?"

"Of course we can, my dear, of course we can," said the Doctor, patting the good-natured bimbo on the shoulder. He tapped it a couple of times and it whirred to life. "You two can watch it for a moment, and I'll be right there," said the Doctor. "I'm just going to have a look outside. I won't be long."

The humans were already clustered around the childish toy with glee. "Cor blimey!" shouted Ben, and Polly giggled. The Doctor moved down the corridor and toward the control room. They'd had a rather cursory inspection of mid-twenty-first century Earth, but it had been rather boring by the Doctor's standards, and they'd left early after Polly had done some shopping and Ben had unsuccessfully tried to pick up girls.

The Doctor opened the doors and was bathed in the cold, gleaming light of neon. He stood outside the TARDIS consulting his pocket watch, looking up at the solitary Earth moon, the prosaic constellations. He heard something in the darkness. "Who's there? Speak up, who's there?" shouted the Doctor.

"Grandfather! I thought it was you!" The Doctor was overwhelmed as Susan threw herself into his arms. He thought it was Susan; she was wearing refugee rags. Her hair was still short, but she was looking older. Much older.

"Susan! My dear child! What are you doing here?" The Doctor had taken her act of rebellion in its entirety and hadn't expected to ever see her again. "Won't you come into the TARDIS where I can see you better?"

She nodded, and they moved into the calm, roundel-pocked walls. In the light, the Doctor could see she was dirty and hunched and carrying something in her arms. "I thought I heard the TARDIS," she muttered.

"Goodness gracious," said the Doctor. "What's the matter with you?"

"It didn't work out between David and I," she said.

"Who?"

She rolled her eyes. "David, Grandfather. We were going to be freedom-fighters and restore the Earth after the Dalek invasion had failed."

"Oh yes, quite." The Doctor took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. Susan had developed a somewhat awkward smell.

"I'm building my own TARDIS now, you see, and I just don't have time anymore for a child."

The Doctor's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Susan thrust into his arms the bundle she had been carrying. The Doctor saw now that it was a humanoid child, very young, completely silent and wrapped in a flour sack. It also needed to be changed, the Doctor smelled.

"It's your great-grandchild!" Susan announced with a flourish.

"In a flour sack?!"

"I told you it's been difficult," muttered Susan. "Look, it wasn't easy for me growing up with you, but I've gotten over that. I'm leading my own life now, and I don't need the mistakes I made years ago to–"

The Doctor, barely remembering not to drop the child in his arms, sidled over to Susan and shouted, "Now see here! You can't just dump your responsibilities on–"

"Ha! Responsibilities!" Susan snapped, draping herself over the console. "What do you know about responsibilities?"

"I raised you, didn't I?"

"Then you've had a lot of practice!" With that, Susan released the lever and ran out the door. "Goodbye, Grandfather!" she shouted as she went. The doors closed behind her, and the Doctor couldn't run after her and hold onto the baby at the same time.

For a moment he just held the baby, who was still silent, and stood there, smelling the unmistakable scent of wet nappy. "She didn't even tell me the sex of the child." He began to lift the flour sack. The baby spit up in his face.

"Ben!" the Doctor screamed. The baby screamed, too, and began to wail. It shook its arms and spit up some more, this time on the Doctor's shirtfront. "Polly! GET ME SOME COFFEE!"


	2. Chapter 2

Horror in Chaco Canyon

**Horror in Chaco Canyon**  
The sun was setting, lighting the huge sky. The air was arid and cold; it was a New Mexican winter some time in the late nineteenth-century. At the bottom of the valley, the Doctor, Jamie, and Victoria stared up at Pueblo Bonito, high up on the crag. The Doctor had spent all day patiently enduring the American anthropologist's crack pot ideas on the Anasazi civilization. Jamie had spent all day patiently enduring the Doctor's smilingly snide remarks about the American anthropologist. Victoria had spent all day rolling a rock around in her shoe.

"They're excavating up there," said the anthropologist. "Let me walk up first and give them a halloo, so they don't shoot you on sight." He gave a nervous chuckle.

"Aye," said Jamie.

The Doctor folded his hands and looked patronizing. "I'd hate for this to come to any violence." He turned to Victoria. "It wouldn't do at all to give this young lady the wrong impression of her Atlantic cousins."

Victoria quite liked showing off her bare legs and even though they were in roughly her own period, she'd made a point of wearing short 1960s skirts. The anthropologist was staring at her rather hungrily, and she gave him a sunny smile.

"I'll be back in half an hour," said the anthropologist and began the hike.

"Shall we sit down?" asked the Doctor. "We might as well make ourselves comfortable while we wait." He removed his coat and spread it out on the desert sand, carefully checking for stray cacti that might prick his bottom. Jamie followed suit, and Victoria slowly sank down and rested on her heels, unwilling to expose any part of herself to rattlesnake country.

"Isn't this extraordinary?" asked the Doctor, looking up at the sky, where a sliver of a moon appeared in the dull blue. "We've arrived on the winter solstice precisely. Once we reach Pueblo Bonito, we'll be able to see superb alignment of the stars. Our anthropologist thinks it's some kind of sacrificial site, but it's more like an Anasazi observatory." He sighed and looked happily at Jamie.

Jamie was kicking at a juniper tree root. "When can we go back to the TARDIS, Doctor?"

"Weren't you listening to a word I said?" blustered the Doctor. "We're about to see something extraordinary in Chaco Canyon and–"

"I'm tired and thirsty," said Victoria. "This is all rather dull."

The Doctor crossed his arms over his chest and privately denounced them as morons. He regained control of himself to say, "If you're so bored, why don't you take the opportunity for a little nap? That chap will be back to get us soon enough, and you'll be refreshed by the time he arrives."

Without protest both Jamie and Victoria slid into sleep quickly. Despite himself, the Doctor was feeling the effects of the thin desert air as well . . .

When he came to, it was night. The stars were shining brightly above, as was the moon. There was no sign of the anthropologist, but the Doctor jumped up to his feet. Or tried to. As soon as he got up he fell down again. Jamie beside him woke up with a groan. The Doctor felt something attached to his wrist. He pulled as hard as he could.

"Ow, Doctor, what are you doooing there?"

"What is going on?" asked the Doctor heatedly. He pulled at his wrist, slowly realizing that he was handcuffed to Jamie.

"Ohhh, Doctor," moaned Victoria, "I'm tied to this tree, and Jamie's tied to my other arm."

The horrible truth donned on the Doctor: somehow Victoria had been handcuffed to a tree, Jamie had been handcuffed to her, and he, the Doctor, was handcuffed to Jamie. "This is ridiculous!" he shouted. "Where did handcuffs come from?"

"Oh, that was me, Doctor."

"Jamie, why were you carrying handcuffs? And more to the point, where were you hiding them?"

A significant look passed between Victoria and Jamie, one scarcely noticed by the Doctor in the moonlight. "Och, Doctor, I just fooond them in the TARDIS. I thought they were clever, tha' I might have use for them some time."

"Yes, great use they've turned out to be!"

"I didnae handcuff us!"

"Of course you didn't," said the Doctor, with pained deliberation. "But someone did. Probably that wretched anthropologist."

"Well, I'd rather be handcuffed dooon here than climbing up there," Jamie volunteered mutinously.

"That, you ignorant Highlander, was the worst possible thing to say."

Jamie was sulkily silent. Then he burst into tears.

"Oh, Doctor," whined Victoria, "you've made Jamie cry."

"No, I haven't," mumbled the Doctor.

"Yes, you have! And now I'm going to cry too!" And in the night air there were the mingled sounds of Jamie and Victoria sobbing, while the Doctor felt in the dirt for a rock. He hadn't quite decided what to do with it yet.


	3. Chapter 3

The Xrfadrin Experiment

**The Xrfadrin Experiment**  
The Doctor was singing "Nella Fantasia" in the little washroom in his neutered TARDIS. Another day in the Who Mobile, and he was covered with grit and muck. Nothing a sonic shower couldn't remedy. He had just toweled off and was putting on his velour dressing gown. He cleaned the fogged up mirror and reached into his toiletries cabinet.

Outside, in the Doctor's laboratory, Jo Grant heard a strangled cry. The Doctor threw open the TARDIS doors and stood, dripping and in a dressing gown, with a sour expression on his face. "Jo, have you seen my hair cream, I–"

The Doctor stared at Jo. Her long blonde hair had been swept up into an enormous beehive on the top of her head. It was so large and elaborate, in fact, it defied Earth gravity. The Doctor narrowed his eyes. Nothing could achieve that kind of lift except titanium-based hair cream. He was about to accuse his young assistant of theft, but he was mesmerized by what she was wearing.

Now, Jo had, the Doctor knew, a knack for wearing all kinds of strange get-ups, but this really took the cake. It was an electric blue velvet frock coat with turned back lapels–enormous and black–and a frilly shirtfront underneath with a large black bowtie. The cuffs of the shirt were long and flouncy. She was wearing matching blue trousers with large bell-bottom cuffs. The truth dawned on the Doctor, and he mentally swore. "Miss Grant, you've been in my wardrobe, haven't you?"

Jo said nothing but pointed at the Doctor and giggled. "You're dripping all over!" she smirked.

"I really think–"

At that moment, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart walked in. At least the Doctor thought it was Lethbridge-Stewart. He could barely tell. The man who used to be the Brigadier was similarly attired to Jo, except he was in orange velvet and his shirtfront was enormously frilly. He was also wearing a gaudy ring on his pinky. To the Doctor's shock, he had shaved off his moustache and was wearing his hair spiked in a peculiar manner, standing up straight off the top of his head. He, too, had evidently been going through the Doctor's dresser . . .

"Ah, there you are, old chap," said the Brigadier.

The Doctor remembered meeting the Brigadier in the parallel universe, as an evil Brigade Leader, but the sight before him filled him with more horror. "Have you gone out of your minds? What's the meaning of this?" He checked his pocket watch. It wasn't April Fool's.

"Not you too, Sergeant Benton!" the Doctor cried, aghast, for Benton had walked in, too, wearing the same ensemble except in purple, his hair in as big a bouffant as he could manage.

"This is a psychedelic nightmare!"

"I'm afraid you are right, Doctor."

"I should have known you were . . ." The Doctor's well-rehearsed words of reprobation died on his lips as he turned to the familiar voice of the Master and saw–

The Master's hair, too, was incredibly high, and his beard was done up in braids, tied by tiny pink bows. He was wearing a velvet suit of black and was holding out what looked like an atomizer in the same position one would normally hold a gun. The Doctor noticed that he was wearing incredibly high platform shoes.

"What have you done?"

"My plan rather backfired," said the Master pleasantly. "This atomizer contained the chemical Xrfadrin–"

"No!"

"Well, you know then what I meant to do. Miss Grant, the Brigadier, Sergeant Benton and all the rest were to form an attachment to me that was like fawning adoration."

"But they formed it on me," said the Doctor.

"Yes, and now," said the Master, yawning, "so have I."

"Your clothes are really groovy," interjected Jo. "I don't know why I never noticed before!"

"Yes, you're quite the dapper gentleman," said Benton, running his hand appreciatively through the bouffant on his head.

The Doctor ran back into the TARDIS to think. There was only one way to dispel Xrfadrin in its gaseous state. He would have to reverse the polarity of the atoms of excitation, therefore creating a fixation on another of the three people standing outside. But which one? The thought of everyone in high heels and mini-skirts gave the Doctor a migraine. He awoke ten minutes later on the floor of the TARDIS, moaning.


	4. Chapter 4

Domestic Doom

**Domestic Doom**  
"We've got a present for you, haven't we, K9?" Romana's bright voice came from somewhere in front of the Doctor, but he was at that moment wrapped up in his scarf, unable to see. Romana had him by the hand, and he could hear K9 whirring around somewhere on the floor.

"Affirmative, Mistress."

She asked leading questions like that just to get that response, the Doctor knew, moving obediently forward. Ever since they'd gotten back from Paris she'd been so bossy and cloying, rather like they were dating and not just two Gallifreyan renegades sharing a Type 40 TARDIS. He'd never made her any promises.

"All right, Romana, I've had quite enough of being kept in the dark."

"Isn't it more interesting?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, you're in the dark a lot," came the chirrupy voice belonging to her newest regeneration–what a show-off.

"Look, are you going to reveal the surprise or aren't you? It's not even my birthday."

"No, but it's our anniversary."

The Doctor stopped and jerked his hand away from Romana. "What?"

"I mean, the anniversary of regenerating."

He could just see her disingenuous smile, that simpering fair face. Gone was pouty Romana of the dark, enticing lips and spiky heels . . . He realized she was waiting for him to say something. "Er . . . how can you tell?"

"Relative time, of course." Now she had stopped, and K9's motors had ceased whizzing. "All right, you can look now." She was helping him unwind the scarf from his face.

"You did say I would like this, didn't you?"

"Oh, don't equivocate!"

Free of the scarf, the Doctor looked eagerly. They were in the TARDIS kitchen. Romana was indicating something, and K9 was wagging his tail. Electronic sycophant. The object in question was some sort of vacuum, with a big pink ribbon tied around it. "No, I must be mistaken," said the Doctor, pulling a grin. "I thought that was an Astro-Bin super vacuum for cleaning–" he gave K9 a severe look, "–ball bearing stains."

"It is!" cried Romana, clapping her hands together in glee. "And this is for you, too." She held out a yellow rubbery apron, just his size. It had stylized pastel drawings of the Looms on their home planet pasted onto it; a four-year-old centipede could have handled it with more dexterity. His grin was getting wider and more manic. "K9!" called Romana.

"Master," said the tin dog, shoving toward the Doctor with his nose a pair of yellow washing-up gloves that matched the apron hideously.

The Doctor's smile had become a grimace; he gritted his teeth. "Romana . . ."

"Now you can do the washing-up and the Hoovering," she said, taking the gloves from K9 and fitting them on the astonished Doctor's hands. "You don't have any excuse to leave it to K9 and me any longer."

The Doctor said nothing, only gripped the gloves.

"Surprise!" shouted Romana again.

The Doctor nodded and gripped his gloves.


	5. Chapter 5

Three's a Crowd

**Three's a Crowd**  
"Doctor! Doctor! Come quickly!" It was Adric's adolescent whine intruding on the Doctor's thoughts as the latter sat at the console, tinkering.

The Doctor lifted his half-moon glasses condescendingly. "Adric, can't you see I'm busy?"

"You're not really, you've been sitting there for hours!"

The Doctor had brought the art of patience to a singular level between Adric and Tegan, and he was hoping he might one day be recognized for it on some planet or another. They don't have to give me the Nobel Peace Prize or anything, he thought. A nice Cosmopolitan cocktail might be nice, since becoming a role model for three young people once again had caused him to give up drinking all together. Oh, he and the Brig had had a few ones down at the pub, in their day . . .

"Doctor!"

"You of all people should recognize how complex the mathematical formulas . . ."

Adric picked up a spectrometer and smashed it loudly on the floor. "Oops."

The Doctor took off his glasses and put them away with badly shaking hands. "You're really a pest sometimes, you know?"

"You'll regret saying that when I'm dead."

"What was that?!"

"Nothing."

Adric was all innocence in his yellow pajamas and mathematical excellence star. The Doctor took some deep breaths. "What's the problem that's so important?"

Adric started running down one of the TARDIS corridors. "It's Tegan and Nyssa."

"Are they hurt?"

"No."

"Are they fighting?"

"No."

"Answer me in an affirmative manner, please. Is there something actually the matter or are you just winding me up?"

They had stopped in front of the door to Tegan and Nyssa's bedroom. "They're doing something fun in there and they won't let me in!" Adric crossed his arms across his chest.

"What--?" The Doctor knocked faintly on the door. He pressed his ear against the door and listened. "Tegan? Nyssa?"

"There's some guy in there, too."

"What? What guy?"

"I don't know, they picked him up." Adric was looking at the Doctor as if he were a moron. "They were tired of waiting for you to fix the Time Rotor, so they went outside."

The Doctor rubbed his forehead wearily. He was beginning to hear something from inside the room, and he didn't like the sound of it. "They went outside? After I told them–"

"They went to a bar. And they met this guy."

"What guy?!" The Doctor began pacing.

"Captain Somebody," said Adric boredly. "He said they were going to have a three-way conversation, and then he locked me out."

"A WHAT?!" The Doctor stormed over to the door. "Tegan! Nyssa! Do you hear me? Under no circumstance are you allowed to– I'm not operating a flying space-hotel! Or a brothel!"

"That's a new word," said Adric thoughtfully. "We didn't have that on Alzarius."

"I daresay."

"What's it mean?"

"Go look it up in a dictionary!" the Doctor snarled. He wasn't used to snarling. The sounds of the-Thing-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named were growing harder to disguise. "Adric, please go to your room," said the Doctor.

Adric shrugged and walked off. He would soon discover the drug Rax and it would all be downhill from there.

The Doctor pounded his head against the wall. "Tegan, how could you?" he muttered weakly. "I guess all the fan fiction writers were right," he said, as a wave of impenetrable jealousy washed through him.


	6. Chapter 6

Fight of the Flab

**Fight of the Flab**  
"You know I don't approve of game shows," said the Doctor, walking down the dark corridors of a television studio. "You shouldn't either," he told Peri. "Not after that last bit on Varos . . ."

A bright light assailed the Doctor as he stared into a watching multitude of thousands. The studio stage was slick and bursting with color and noise. The sound of a dozen cameras turning to record his every move. Oh, Varos had been bad enough. But the Doctor didn't realize he was in for something worse.

He turned angrily to Peri, who had been restrained by executives carrying clipboards with Bluetooths in their ears. "I'm sorry, Doctor," she said weakly. "They said they would kill you if I didn't . . ."

"Ah, a trap," the Doctor said robustly, looking from Peri's face to those of the stunned viewers, who didn't quite know what to make of his brilliant costume. "I should have known."

The executives manhandled Peri out of the way. "Where are you taking her?" demanded the Doctor. The crowd drew in its collective breath.

"They're making me appear on Survivor 149 in a bikini," said Peri miserably, as she was hauled away.

"Oh really?" said the Doctor.

Two more executives grabbed him by the arms and hustled him toward the center of the stage. "Do you mind telling me what sort of game show this is?"

The host moved toward the Doctor in a svelte black suit. "Welcome, Doctor, to The Biggest Loser."

The Doctor peered at her in mingled disgust and awe. "I beg your pardon?"

"How much do you weigh, Doctor?"

"What an impertinent question!" the Doctor snapped.

"Have you even approached a scale in the last fifty years?" asked the host, with a mock-sympathetic smile. The crowd was "oooh"ing.

"I have no idea what–"

"Are you too ashamed to end the vicious cycle?"

The Doctor was sweating profusely under the studio lights and growing ruddier with anger by the minute. "Excuse me," said the Doctor, trying very hard not to swear. "I don't know what vicious cycle you're referring to!" He addressed the crowd directly, with an appeal he knew was irresistible. "Viewers, don't you think it's of much more importance the actions I achieve rather than the size of my middle?"

There was silence as all the faces stared at him. "Place him on the scale," said the host. The Doctor fought with all his might, which was usually more than enough, but was unable to escape as he was set down on an enormous scale. The crowd "ooh"ed and "ahh"ed, and the Doctor was glad he was not prone to human disorders of the blood pressure. He would escape, and then he would rescue Peri. It was only a matter of playing along–after all, hadn't he done so against the Celestial Toymaker so many years ago?–before he dazzled them all with an exciting getaway.

Except they kept tempting him with chocolate cakes and éclairs and edible ball bearings. They were showing the audience stills of his somewhat thinner previous selves and making him feel guilty. What?! He couldn't fall prey to this . . . lunacy!

"Your fitness workout will consist of an hour on the treadmill–"

"Punishment fit for criminals."

"–fifty minutes on the stationery bike–"

"Where's the fun in that?"

"–twenty minutes on the rowing machine–"

"I rowed on the River Cam, did you know that?"

"–followed by yoga–"

"If you think I'm doing that, you're crazier than I thought."

"–and a light meal of bean curd soup."

"No."

But, to the Doctor's horror, he wondered if he'd finally met his match: the more he protested, made an obnoxious ass of himself, the more the public seemed to love it. "Just wait 'til I appear on Judge Judy!" he crowed. "Then you'll be sorry!"


	7. Chapter 7

For Whom the Coin Drops

**For Whom the Coin Drops**  
The Doctor had no companion with him to tell why he was currently on one end of a bank teller's window, so he told the person standing in front of him with her purse open. "Why am I here? Well, why are any of us here?" He rubbed his wrinkled forehead and looked morosely at the window grate. "I despise money. I loathe it in all forms, coins, paper, credits, golden sheep. It leaves a rrrr-rancorous stench.

"But here I am, operating a window as a bank clerk at some anonymous bank in 1950s Bromley, of all places. I've been coerced, on pain of death, into this abhorrent position. Until I can find a way out, my TARDIS has been confiscated and it's my job to dole out that which your species once called Mammon. The rrrrrr-root of all evil."

The lady with her wire-rimmed spectacles and white gloves stared at him. "All I asked for was a hundred pound, not a history lesson."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "That wasn't history, that was philosophy!" He half-stood, the ranting look eager in his eye, but stopped and quickly counted out a hundred pounds.

"In ten-pound notes, please."

"To how many decimal points?" the Doctor snarled.

The lady didn't answer but took her money and shoved it in her handbag, glowering at the Doctor. He was unconcerned that his queue was the longest at the bank and moved the slowest. He thought about the invisible bonds that had glued him to the teller's desk, a penal servitude placed upon him by the Chism of Callyhoon, for transgressing the laws of that race. It had actually been Mel who had erred against the Callyhoon's delicate earbuds with her maniac screaming, but she had been his responsibility. He wondered who was suffering more, him or her: she was gagged in the back office of the bank, doling out tea and coffee and the occasional aerobic advice.

"The sentence isn't a long one, by galactic standards," said the Doctor drearily to a man in a mackintosh who wanted to deposit a month's wages. "I'll be out of here before you get grey hair. It's the agony of it, the shame. It's going to take about fifty years out of me."

"Tough luck, mate," said the man at the window, with a northern accent the Doctor thought he'd someday like to have. Until then, he'd have to wait until someone tried to rob the bank for any kind of excitement.


	8. Chapter 8

Trapped, with Apologies to Joseph Lidster

**Trapped, with Apologies to Joseph Lidster**  
The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS into total darkness. "Hello?" he inquired. There was nothing in reply, not even an echo. He could neither see nor feel anything beneath his feet. There was no sensation of any kind of atmosphere in front of or behind him. No noise, no light, no impression, no pressure. He felt neither cold nor hot. He counted off on his fingers–he could still feel his fingers even if he wasn't sure they were connected to him–it wasn't E-Space, it wasn't N-Space, it wasn't the Matrix, it wasn't the Death Zone, it wasn't an anti-matter universe, it wasn't chronic histerosis, it wasn't a parallel universe . . . what else was there?

"Well, this is unexpected," said the Doctor, showing a propensity for talking to himself that was most helpful. He was also aware that he had a very pleasant voice without even the trace of a Liverpudlian accent, and in several worlds he was already being used for the voice of computers and other soothing electronics.

He moved back toward the TARDIS, holding his hands out in the darkness, and was not too surprised when he didn't find it where he left it. He thought about sitting down, but there was nothing to sit on, so he remained where he was. "If I'm where I think I am, which is nowhere, does that make me no one?"

He began singing "Nowhere Man," hoping it would either pass the time more quickly or bring who or whatever had trapped him out. There was no such luck. He got through the song and then into a few choruses of "Hey Jude" before he gave up.

"I never liked these theoretical problems, even at the Academy," he muttered. This regeneration had been through a lot–a terribly upsetting regeneration process, kissing, amnesia, loss of the TARDIS, destruction of Gallifrey . . . not to mention the wringer of critics who'd pronounced him un-canonical. He was hoping for once he was going to get a break.

"Funny enough," he said to the darkness, "I have already thought about what I would do if I was in just such a situation. It involved Gilbert and Sullivan." Still no answer.

"Charley?" the Doctor asked, thinking perhaps he might find his companions in this great disorienting nothingness, as he had in the Death Zone. Er, no, he didn't really want to see Charley–she was in love with him. "Fitz?" No, not Fitz either–he was in love with him, too. "Anji? Trix? Sam?" The Doctor tossed his magnificent wavy hair, which unfortunately could not be seen or otherwise witnessed by anyone. "Cr'izz? Grace? Erm . . . Benny?" He went ahead and did the entire roll call of companions, even including that Dodo girl and Kamelion the dysfunctional robot. He even thought he might actually be dead and called for Adric, Katarina, and Sara Kingdom, but that didn't work either. Finally, he tried calling his past incarnations for help. "Um . . . are you there, Massively Over-Clever Me with the White 'Fro?"

All of his calls went unanswered, and no matter how far he seemed to move in the great nothingness, he never ran into anything, never found the TARDIS or anything but more nothingness. He had to pat down his coat every once in awhile just to make sure he was still corporeal. Plus he just looked damn sexy when he did that, but of course there was no one there to see it.

The Doctor took a deep breath. An idea began to form in his mind, too terrible to be said aloud. Lacking anything else to do, however, he said it aloud. "I couldn't be . . . stuck in audio?!" With this he seemed to hear the slightest crackle of feedback, as if from recording equipment. This confirmed his worst fears. It wasn't bad enough having discordant authors write up fictions that cancelled each other out–now he was trapped on audio.

"Well, now that I'm here," he said, "how do I get out?"

Unfortunately no author, sound engineer, or producer intervened; he was truly alone.

He tossed his hair, cracked his neck, straightened his cravat as best he could in the dark. He would have to write, narrate, and act all the roles in his audio adventure, while providing music and sound effects. It was a tall order.

"Dun dun dun, dun dun dun, dun dun . . ." sang the Doctor.


	9. Chapter 9

Van Gogh Smiling

**Van Gogh Smiling**  
Rose had just gotten back from a portrait session with Vincent Van Gogh. The Doctor had landed them in Provence for a relaxing holiday in fields of lavender, with a chance to buy all the pastis Jackie Tyler could possibly ever drink at rock-bottom prices. They'd visited Nostradamus' home town–the Doctor said something about knitting scarves–and the ruined amphitheatre in the middle of Arles. The Doctor had been dead impressed, but Rose had yawned. "If I wanted to see Roman ruins, I would have gone back to ancient Rome, yeah?"

"See if I don't leave you to the Tarasque," the Doctor had said, only half-joking.

Fortunately Vincent Van Gogh happened to be in Arles at the time they visited, so they had been invited to his yellow room by the landlady (after they'd paid his rent). "It's just like in the paintings," Rose had said admiringly at the dank garret.

The Doctor had rolled his eyes, and they had waited for Vincent to show up. Rose had gotten up and wandered around, looking over her shoulder with her poutiest look. "Doctor," she had purred, "did Van Gogh ever paint any nudes?"

The Doctor's ears had burned. "No. Just landscapes an' stuff." Rose had pretended to be disappointed and sucked a piece of her long bleached blonde hair into her mouth. Twisting it around her tongue.

Van Gogh had shown up, finally, and had been somewhat perturbed at their appearance. The flash of psychic paper hadn't really worked all that well, but when the Doctor said he would pay for a portrait of the young lady, it had been all right.

So Rose was looking at her portrait–well, she would have preferred the paintings of almond blossoms–and the Doctor was shaving. They'd been through the whole ordeal about court systems and imprisonment. And the Doctor was shaving more than ever. And cutting himself more than ever. She'd washed off the cuts and nicks like he'd asked, the first dozen times or so.

"Rose?"

"Hmm?"

"Did Vincent Van Gogh look familiar to you at all?"

"No, should he have? I mean, I recognized the red beard from the paintings an' stuff, but . . ."

"Guess it was just me," said the Doctor from the bathroom. There was silence, and then, "Why were you flirting with him?"

"Wot? With Van Gogh? In your dreams!"

"No, you were! Don' you know he's unstable, never had good luck with women?"

"Wouldn't be the first."

"What?" She knew the Doctor had heard her perfectly well, and she thought she caught the sound of a sniffle. There was silence, and then, "Rose, I've cut myself."

"Oh, tell me something I don't know!"

"No, really, I have! I've cut me ear right off!"

Rose got halfway off the sofa and threw down her magazine, alarmed. Then she sighed and sat down again. "Better cut the uvver one off, while you're at it. Then you won't be lopsided."

She knew he hadn't really cut off his ear. But there was a strangled cry and jealous tears. Rose didn't feel too guilty. For a nine-hundred-year-old, his emotional maturity should be able to withstand one joke. In bad taste. "Oh, damn," she muttered, as she went to comfort him.


	10. Chapter 10

Just Desserts

**Just Desserts**  
The Doctor was looking forward to being back in Cardiff. Donna had never been to Wales, and no amount of convincing would persuade her that there was a space-time rift running through the city. " 'S not even Wales, is it?"

" 'Course it is!"

"But it's so English!"

He had ignored her and landed the TARDIS outside the Bosphorus restaurant in Cardiff Bay. "You takin' me to dinner?" she asked gleefully.

"Why not?" He was somewhat surprised to observe she was in evening dress, including heels. He escorted her into the restaurant. They were seated at a table unfortunately quite far from the best views of the Bay. They had just ordered drinks when the power went out.  
It flickered on after about thirty seconds. When it did, the Doctor discovered that the restaurant was deserted, aside from Donna and himself. He stood up to investigate, and suddenly there was an overwhelming cry. Not a cry, a great squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. It was the collective coo of a dozen women who suddenly descended into the restaurant.

The Doctor thought at first they were running away from something, but realized too late they were running toward him. "He's here!" "We got him!" "Come on, ladies!" were the cries that surrounded him. Unnerved by the fact that none of them seemed to be wielding weapons, he wondered how best to get away without hurting any of them. Before he could even reach for the sonic screwdriver, he was lifted bodily by the force of a dozen women moving at the fastest speed their kitten heels could muster. Almost before he knew what was happening, they had torn away a curtain in the restaurant, revealing what looked like a giant dart board.

"Put your back into it, girls!" He was thrown against the wall and speared onto it by means of stakes the women hammered into the wall through his clothes.

"What are you doing?!" he screamed. His only answer was a loving coo from the women. He looked over at Donna, drinking a margarita at their dinner table, looking totally unconcerned. "Donna! Some help?"

She shook her head. "Oh, no. You got yourself into this mess."

"I–what?"

Before she could reply, one of the women had wrenched off one of his trainers and then a sock. She giggled and tossed the sock and shoe into the crowd. Another woman started playing with his toes. He giggled, despite himself. "Stop that! I'm ticklish–stop, stop that!"

"Hear that? He's ticklish!"

"Donna!!"

"Oh, they're not going to hurt you!" Donna snapped.

"What are they going to do?" asked the Doctor in terror, as the women had brought two step ladders on either side of him. He was giggling as both his now-bare feet were being tickled. Women were climbing up the step ladders toward him.

"Oh, I don't know, leave lipstick all over you? How should I know? I didn't ask!"

"You delivered me to a bunch of crazy women and you didn't even ask what they were going to do?!" Two of the women had reached him by now. One was taking off his long brown coat and the other was running her hands through his hair.

"Doctor, you were gaggin' for it," Donna said, getting up at last from her chair. "What with the tight suit, the styled hair, the kissing–" She mimicked a panning motion with her hands. "–the long slow ECUs showing your big brown eyes–what was that about?"

The Doctor didn't answer. Someone was undoing his tie. He wrenched away as best he could. "That wasn't my fault!"

"And the shirtless scene!"

"That wasn't me, that was the other one!" the Doctor said impatiently as one of his trouser legs was rolled up to the knee. He was kicking out now; the tickling was really pissing him off.

"Well, tell them that," said Donna. "I'll be back in the morning. I'm off to have a tour of the city with a certain Captain Jack . . ."

"Captain Jack!" exclaimed the exasperated Doctor. "I should have known he was behind this!" Someone threw his tie to the adoring masses and was unbuttoning his shirt. "This is completely illegal," he shouted at the women. "You keep going, I'm never going to save Earth from planetary destruction again . . . No, I . . . ah . . . well, that's rather nice . . ."

"It wasn't Captain Jack," said Donna over her shoulder as she left.

"Well, then, who was it?" shouted the Doctor, not quite so annoyed anymore.

"The Parody Writer," said Donna simply. "She's awfully persuasive."

A look of true horror crossed the Doctor's face. "She'll make me put on the glasses, won't she?"

THE END?


End file.
